


In the Absence of Evidence

by rainedparade



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Decepticons Won, Forced Pregnancy, M/M, Medical Examination, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27328081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainedparade/pseuds/rainedparade
Summary: An unexpected visitor to the lesser clinic within the Darkmount complex leads Ratchet to a startling and unwelcome revelation.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 15
Kudos: 78





	In the Absence of Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in a universe where the Decepticons triumph and Megatron takes Optimus as his consort while ruling Cybertron with an iron fist, in terms of chronology the events described here take place before 'Starting Line Burn Out'. (The stories are unrelated but take place under the same starting premise.)

Ratchet woke to the whoosh of the clinic doors. There followed the clatter of pedes before the doors slid shut.

A patient, then.

He rolled out of berth, briefly pulling up his internal chronometer. As soon as he saw the time, he knew he'd spent too long in recharge. Pausing only to down the nearest cube of energon, he made haste to the waiting room.

His spark both soared and sank at the sight before him.

"Optimus," he greeted.

The mech who would always be his Prime gave him one of his under-the-battlemask smiles, the sort of smile that could only be seen in the slightly-turned corners of the other mech's optics.

"Ratchet," Prime replied.

"I'm surprised they let you out of the other clinic," Ratchet quipped.

Optimus stared at him for a while and then said: "I have yet to pay them a visit." Ratchet raised his optic ridges in surprise at that. It had, after all, been three chords since that farce of a bonding ceremony and everyone knew what Megatron was like in the berth. He quickly nuked the protocols that were responsible for the roiling of his own tanks, reminding himself to be distant, clinical and professional. They could talk at length later.

"What seems to be the problem then?"

"I purged my fuel tanks this morning."

Ratchet swallowed. The implications were not lost on him. "After the morning ration?" he asked.

"During."

"I see." He bit back a wince and then gestured into the main examination room. "Well, let's have a look at you, shall we?"

\---

Up on the examination table, it was difficult to distinguish between Optimus and Orion. True, it had been megavorns upon megavorns since the mech in question answered to the latter designation, but his memory still burned bright inside Ratchet's spark.

Remembering was the least he could do, the medic had long since sworn to himself.

Optimus, who now held the role of Consort and who had come to him to evaluate the possibility of a sparkling, lay on the table with his optics offlined. Save for the slow rise and fall of his vents, he could've been passed off as deactivated.

As Ratchet dutifully plugged two cables in and three cables out, he tried to keep his thoughts off of the inevitable consequences of a positive result.

Megatron would be ecstatic for one. It had been a dream of his, even before the war, to sire a sparkling through Optimus.

The thought of the former warlord gloating of this additional claiming made Ratchet force himself through a hard-reboot, lest his processor overheat. The reboot must've taken no more than a klik, but when he onlined his optics, he realised Optimus' gaze was upon him, concerning shining through sparkling blue optics, battlemask or no.

"You need to lie back down," Ratchet barked, "You're in no place to be offering sympatheties, least of all to _me_." It was no secret after all, that Optimus' sacrifices had landed him his current cushy little posting.

Optimus drew a grating ex-vent before doing as told.

Ratchet ex-vented too before going back to the diagnostics.

His spark lightened considerably at the results.

"Negative," he said.

Optimus paused and then pushed himself up again.

"You're sure?" his Prime asked.

"Yes," Ratchet nodded. He'd run three independent tests just to make sure.

"Then the purging this morning..."

"I see an instance of both your secondary energon processors overheating about two and a half groons following recharge."

"Yes," Optimus nodded. "But -- why?"

What Ratchet wanted to say was: because you've been forcibly bonded to the same mech you've spent ninety percent of your existence trying to kill and vice-versa so obviously your internal processors are fraying at the edges.

Instead he gave a grim smile of his own.

"Stress." The one-size-fits-all answer.

"That's..." Optimus started, shifting so that his legs dangled off of the table. Even without having said anything, Ratchet could feel an iota of relief creep through the other mech's perpetually-fraught EM field. He set his own denta at the knowldge. For if an iota was all that could be gleaned, then an iota would have to do.

"You have no reason to feel guilty," Ratchet said. He had enough kindness to keep from adding: _Especially as your conjux will doubtlessly keep trying to spark you up_ , though it was the truth.

"I know," Optimus answered. His tone and EM field were polar opposites then and if Ratchet were capable of doing so without it leading to his Prime incurring more of the Emperor's wrath when he found out (and he always found out), he would have held him tight, would have drowned his whole field out with his touch. But he could not and so did not, instead laying a servos upon the other's shoulder.

Optimus' eyes crinked again at the edges, but Ratchet knew from experience that there would be no smile behind the battlemask.

"Old friend..." he said, trailing off as a tremble ran through his frame.

Ratchet's spark sank at the sight.

"Optimus," he said, tone sharp. He pulled out the wires and went to stand before the other, pulling himself out of his medic's persona.

Optimus' gaze followed him.

"Have you been repaired or touched up since the ceremony?" Ratchet demanded.

And there it was again, that full-body shudder.

"No."

The response _should_ have been heartening. Ratchet hadn't been privy to the two of them before the war, but he had heard the rumours of how the little archivist alone had been able to soften the gladiator's fist. He should have been relieved to hear confirmation that Optimus wasn't being physically abused.

But the discrepancy -- that difference between what was expected and what actually was -- also lay at the root of the problem.

For a moment, a sickening image invaded his optics, so vivid it was as if someone had sent it over comms. He could see Megatron petting, soothing, cajoling. Slowly stretching the mech before him open, inch by inch. It must've taken joors. Perhaps even orns. But he had done it. He had somehow laid claim to Optimus -- fully enough that a sparkling might be expected -- without so much as a scratch or a dent.

Ratchet deleted said image and ran the necessary additional command lines to purge it from his memory banks altogether.

Instead, he set both servos on Optimus' shoulders and met the other mech helm-on.

"Optimus," he said, "You didn't ask for this. The fact that he's being gentle or slow isn't worth an flint of scrap, you hear? Not when you never wanted it in the first place."

Optimus' fields flickered, spreading out before drawing in.

"Old friend..." Optimus whispered back, offlining his optics for half a klik. "If there is a sparkling, I do not know if I can find it in me to care for them."

"As is your right as a sentient creature," Ratchet drawled, digging his thumbs in gently before giving the other mech a light headbutt. Optimus chuckled at that.

"Don't work yourself up over nothing," Ratchet reiterated, removing his servos and reverting to the role of medic. "You haven't been sparked yet and who knows? Maybe you're just incompatible."

Optimus gave another chuckle, though this sound seemed more likely to come from the Slagmaker's intake than his own.

"We're not at all compatible," he breathed, "But I fear it is only a matter of time."

"So be it," Ratchet swore, stepping back at last. "I'll see you through it. Medic's honour."

It was only then that Optimus slid his battlemask back, treating Ratchet with a proper smile, even if it wobbled at the edges.

"Thank you, old friend," he murmured, before sliding off of the table and making his way out of the clinic.

Left alone in the gift he had not wanted and yet could not reject, Ratchet ground his own denta and swore.


End file.
